Page 4 of Your Soul Is Ours

“How have you been?” he asks. It’s the general bullshit question every single person asks you. People's lack of concern for the truth results in them not wanting a real answer. It’s just a pleasantry.

“Fine. You?”

“How have you really been?”

Turning to face him, I take in his dark eyes, his narrow nose and the facial hair trimmed along his sharp jawline. He fiddles with his lip ring. His bottom lip is fuller than the top. I wonder what it would be like to kiss him. It’s a brief thought. “I’ve been better. But isn’t that right for every single person here?”

“Perhaps some of us don’t want to get better, but still do the time.” He lowers his hand to my wrist, running his finger over my skin. I stiffen under his touch.“What?”

“Nice bracelets. Do you have a preference or just whatever catches your eye?”

“Just whatever catches my eye. I try to support small businesses when I can. How many tattoos do you have?” I change the subject to him.

“I think almost a hundred. Do you have any?” I shake my head. Making conversation is harder than I thought it would be. His gaze makes me self-conscious and I'm unsure how to react.

“You may like it, it hurts like a bitch for a bit, but then it doesn’t and you just vibe to the feeling.”

“What’s your name?” I dare to ask a question I should have started with.

“Sebastian. What’s yours?”

“Marla. Nice to meet you.”

“Pleasure is all mine. What number did you get?”

“Fifty-seven. I doubt I’ll see the line move enough to get to the intake. What about you?” He holds up a sixty-five and I know he won’t get in today.

“Why do they want you here?” I ask.

His tongue skirts out of his mouth to wet his lips. “Anger, apparently. I have issues with it. You?”

“Depression and stuff. Why are you angry?”

He looks away. The swirl of ink on his neck stands out against the dark grey of his shirt. He smells like clean laundry and a masculine citrus cologne. As I absorb these little details of him, I wonder if my question was too far.

“Not angry, just apparently have a problem with it. Why are you sad and shit?” Smirking, he looks up as the next numbers are called from the P. A. system.

“Just life, trauma and usual shit.” The corner of my mouth pulls up into a smile. I’m surprised by the way I feel. The thought of feeling anything from someone else terrifies me as I yearn to make a new connection.

“At this rate, we could just counsel each other and be cured right here in the waiting room,” he laughs softly, but it’s loud. I dart my eyes around the room to make sure no one is looking.

“They will deem you incurable and end your life. Don’t do that.”

“Oh, Marla. You care about little ole me?” He looks up at me, a half grin on his lips.

“I don’t need to lose more people. Two of the ones I liked disappeared this morning.” I close my eyes. He’s going to think I’m an idiot. Without waiting for his response, I turn away and twist the bracelet on my wrist. I look towards the large digital number on the wall. Fuck. They are only at twenty-five and it’s already almost time to go.

“We’re not going to make it today,” he says. I don’t turn to look at him, knowing he’s right, but the tears I’ve been holding back threaten to slam through my barrier and pour down my face.He keeps talking, offering stupid phrases about how they’re in a better place. The pain is over for them. I focus on the chair in front of me. The man sitting there has holes in his jeans. Not the trendy ones, just lived-in holes.

The fake condolences hurt the most, because I don’t care if they aren’t suffering anymore. What about what I feel? What about what I want? Stopping my thought process, I realize I sound just like my mother. What have I become that I don’t care about others? When did I lose all my empathy?

Four

Sebastian

Her mind is spiraling, and I want to stop it before the web she spins is too large. I reach out and grasp her wrist with my hand. Her hazel eyes look into mine. Her bangs need a trim, she’s hiding behind her hair again. I saw this happen when I firststarted watching her. She doesn’t stop my touch. I rub my thumb on the underside of her wrist, stroking the soft skin. Her pulse returns to a normal beat. I want to memorize the soft thump, play it in my head to fall asleep or calm me in my own mental storm.

“Attention, the centre is closing for the day. You can come back tomorrow to get access to the services again,” the lady behind the desk says the words most of us hate hearing. Unlike everyone else, I’m not ordered to be here. I’m here for her. Marla rips her wrist from my hand and grabs her purse before rushing out the door. By the time I reach the exit, I’m caught up in the mob of people leaving the centre.

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